


it only takes one break of your pose (to get off)

by goldensprite



Category: One Piece
Genre: Dry Humping, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Hand and Arm Kink, Pining, Porn with Feelings, no beta we die on our feet like whitebeard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:40:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25167844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldensprite/pseuds/goldensprite
Summary: Power outage. Pining. Smut.Mood for this one is tentative and longing and exploratory
Relationships: Smoker/Tashigi (One Piece)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 65





	it only takes one break of your pose (to get off)

**Author's Note:**

> I’m aware there might not even be blackouts in One Piece land. But what’s porn without contrived circumstances?  
>  **Note** \- I know Tashigi is drawn with the same body type as every other One Piece lady, but I feel like she's actually probably swole as hell. She thinks a lot about being girly in this fic, and about being excluded from what that means, so if that is upsetting for you, please skip this one.  
> Title taken from [Deathblow](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=11ImVzWeMHE) by the Deftones

He looks good in moonlight.

Tashigi bites her lip. Barely an hour with the lights out and she's already unravelling.

She already knows Smoker looks good in anything (though she suspects he looks even better in nothing at all). Now, though, he looks a different kind of good standing at the window in the low light. He is still, only moving to take the cigars from his mouth and blow smoke every now and then. He looks distant. So sombre, wearing his serious, Vice Admiral face.

Lamenting the loss of his work time, perhaps. Reports don't write themselves, after all, and they can only get off this podunk island once the admin is done. But, though she'd never admit this out loud, she's glad the power’s out. He'd actually been looking _at her_ , without wanted posters or drunk pirates or noisy marines or piles of paperwork between them. Tashigi likes that it’s just him and her, moonlight, and silence.

And cigar smoke. Of course.

Seeing him stand there, eyebrows drawn together, tension in his shoulders and the lines of his jaw, she wants to kiss his frown away.

But she knows he would only frown that much harder if she touched him.

‘Do you see anything interesting outside?’ she asks, her tone light and friendly.

He snorts. ‘People usually go a little nuts when the power goes out. I’m surprised it’s so quiet.’

‘Mm. It’s a little like the world doesn’t need saving tonight, don’t you think?’ 

He looks at her, exhaling smoke; it's not exactly a smile that he's giving her, but she'll gladly take it.

She pushes the box of chocolate truffles across the desk toward him. ‘You’ve barely had any. Don’t you like them? They’re the really good kind.’

Whether he even likes sweets enough to care how good they are, she has no idea. She just wants to... what? Distract him, she guesses. Cheer him up.

She also very much wants him to just look her way, but that's secondary. Of course.

Smoker sighs, but approaches anyway. ‘Some broke newbie probably worked his ass off to buy that for you. It’d break his heart if he knew you were sharing it with me.’

‘The broke newbie should have put his name on the card.' She smiles. Anonymous gifts outside her door were old news - she was often the only woman on any base, after all. 'Come on. I’ll arm wrestle you for the last caramel one.’

He huffs, puffing smoke. ‘It’s yours by rights,’ he says. He reaches into the box: the moonlight reflects off the stretch of bare forearm between his glove and jacket cuff, and Tashigi has to bite the inside of her cheek.

Smoker settles at the desk, opposite the couch she's sitting on, and she listens to the sound of the truffle shell breaking between his teeth. 

‘Hm. Not bad,’ he grunts.

He finishes the rest and leans his head against the backrest, breathing out slowly. Smoke curls from the end of his cigars, and some of the tension seeps out of his shoulders.

Not bad at all.

He takes a sip of tea as she watches him, and she does the same. The tea on this island is more bitter and medicinal than she personally likes, and it's long grown terribly cold, but she doesn't care, because they are tasting the same thing at the same time. His adam’s apple pulses as he swallows, and she has to look away for a second. Too much. _Too much_.

More smoke curls out of his mouth. 

Smiling to herself, she remembers the first time she’d ever gone to his office. She’d coughed so hard, she’d felt she would never be able to look him in the eye without feeling _soft_ ; inexperienced and unprepared. Since then he’s always been careful to keep back, to always exhale away from her. She wonders if he's even noticed that the smell is like another presence around him by now.

The first few times Tashigi could smell only _burning_ , could only think of it as choking and eye-watering, and couldn’t believe that the fumes could cling to her for so long. Now she's thinks the scent is _warm_ , a woodsmoke, roasting chestnut smell. And she loves that it lingers on her hair, her clothes, her skin, her dreams. Traces of him on her, even when they are apart.

‘What does it taste like?’ she asks, and feels like kicking herself; she sounds like a child.

Smoker tilts his head, raising an eyebrow. ‘You’re really curious? I thought you hated it.’

‘I told you I didn’t mind it.' Tashigi shrugs. 'I’m used to it now.’

He shakes his head, lips quirking up slightly. ‘I thought you’d never come back.’

‘That was then. It is a shock the first time.’ She smiles. ‘I’m so used to being around it, but I don’t know what it tastes like. Isn't that strange?’

He frowns. ‘It’ll probably shock you, like the first time you smelled it.’ 

It was an idle question; she didn’t mean for him to take it this seriously. But the concern in his voice touches her and embarrasses her all at once.

Smoker studies her a moment, then holds one cigar out toward her. She's already half reached out to take it, and her mouth is watering and her skin is growing hot at the thought of doing it; of tasting him, of having him in her mouth like _that_. But she also finds herself panicking: will it choke her? (Or - god forbid, she can barely bring herself to think this - will he notice that it's turning her on?) How stupid would that look to him?

So Tashigi does the only thing she can: she laughs a ditzy laugh and waves her hand dismissively. ‘You’re right. I probably wouldn’t like it much.’

She keeps the smile on her face but he just _stares_ at her, for long enough that she starts to worry.

‘I've actually never even smoked a cigarette, so it's probably best not to try.' She forces a laugh again. 'I really should learn not to be such a scaredy-cat when it comes to trying new things. It would be nice if I could taste it without tasting it, you know?’

Finally, he looks away and brings the cigar back to his mouth, and she sags with relief. 

She shuts her eyes, leans her head back. Is he disappointed? He probably thinks she's too soft. It would be funny, if it wasn't so sad; all her life she's been called too strong, too rough, too _brutish_. And it wasn't like she never _tried_ to be a... a _proper girl_. But now, the one time she _wanted_ someone to see her as strong, the one person she wanted to show that she wasn't weak, and well... she'd flubbed that, too.

His chair scrapes against the tiles and she hears his footsteps - she opens her eyes and suddenly all she sees is _him_ , standing above her, his gaze intense.

She can't seem to find any words: he's so close, and she can't read the expression on his face.

‘Vice Admiral?’

He leans forward, taking the cigars out of his mouth - he is so close to her she can make out the muscles in his forearm tensing as he moves, and suddenly her mouth feels very, very dry - and then rests his palm on the backrest of the couch.

With his other hand he tilts her chin upward, and she freezes, feeling too hot, too cold, too shivery, too _desperate_ , because _he's_ touching her, actually _touching_ her, and the leather of his glove is warm and smooth and his hand dwarfs her face, just the way she’d always imagined it would, and then he's close, so close, _too_ close, and he gently brushes her lips with his.

She gasps, and before she can wrap her mind around the idea that he – Smoker – is kissing her, kissing _her_ , _kissing_ her, his lips are parting and she's being kissed more deeply, more _fully_ than she's ever been kissed before, and she stops being able to wrap her mind around _anything_.

Tashigi whimpers, scrambling to get _more_ of him. She grabs at his jacket, scrabbles at his collar, pulling and yanking, but Smoker remains unruffled and still, one hand on the couch, the other resting lightly against her cheek. 

When he pulls back, a light wisp of smoke trails out of both their mouths, linking them. 

Smoker’s gaze is fierce. ‘What does it taste like?’

She can only blink at him. _That’s why he did that?_

His lips twitch. ‘Didn’t catch it, huh?’

Tashigi meets him halfway this time, wrapping her arms around his neck. He lifts her toward him as if she weighs nothing at all, and it's... she's _Tashigi_ \- too big, too broad, too muscular Tashigi - but he's picking her up with one hand, like she's just another cigar between his fingers, and it's so... so... _something_. Is there a word for what she's feeling?

He lays her down on the couch, settling over her, keeping his lips on hers the whole time. They are shoulder to shoulder, chest to chest, hip to hip; she is _tiny_ against him, _Tashigi_ , who has never, ever been made to feel tiny her whole life.

Smoker takes his time kissing her. No matter how she desperately she moans or how frantically she claws at him, he won’t be hurried, and she would laugh if she could – typical of him to do even this at his pace.

There's more smoke bridging their mouths when they part this time, a thick cord of it that looks almost tangible. She chases it - only when she feels his fingers dig into her skin and hears him cursing under his breath does she realise what she must look like: mouth wide open, tongue out, lapping desperately.

She clamps her mouth shut and looks away, feeling more humiliated than she can bear.

But he drags her face upward again and she can't move even a little in his grasp - when has she ever been able to be _pinned_ like this? - and stares into her eyes. All the thoughts whirling around Tashigi’s head, not measuring up to him, disappointing him, irritating him, not being pretty enough for him, not being sexy enough, not _being_ enough for him, all seem to immolate as those eyes _look_ at her, into her, through her, his gaze pinning her just as surely as his grip on her jaw. She is searching, she realizes, thinking, calculating, looking for the perfect thing to do or say, like she always does, the right thing to say or do that will make her invisible again, lighten the mood and make things okay and unmessy. And as she looks back at him, she thinks, no. I _want_. 

She pushes her body up against his; he raises himself off her a little and she uses that to wriggle out from under him and switch their positions (which happens easily, she realizes, because he _lets_ her, and isn't that a thought). She straddles his hips, and the sheer _wideness_ of the man forces her legs impossibly far apart, the angle just right for his belt buckle to nudge against her clit. He looks up sharply when her breath hitches, and she grapples both his wrists, taking care to touch only his gloves - she isn’t ready to touch his skin - as she traps his arms against the couch cushions.

‘You don't mind?’ she asks; she's surprised that he’s being so obedient.

He shrugs. ‘Try not to set the couch alight?’ he says, nodding toward his cigars. 

She takes them from him and as she does, his eyes narrow hungrily and flick to her mouth. She hesitates, and then steels herself, settling both of them between her lips, careful not to inhale; they stretch her mouth wide, and Tashigi has a sudden desire to push them deeper in, swirl her tongue around them. Smoker's eyes darken, and his smile grows wide. _Wicked_.

‘That’s a pretty sight.’

It's the tone of his voice that makes her shiver, definitely not the... thing he said. It wouldn't be, anyway, it wasn't like he'd said _she_ was pretty. But she's never really heard the word being aimed in her direction before, and... well. She doesn't really know _how_ it makes her feel.

Now is not the time to ponder it, certainly. She sets the cigars in the ashtray on the side table, deliberately not looking at the grin on his face. 

When her hands go back to pinning him he pushes up, but without much force. 

‘Why are you holding my wrists down?’ He doesn’t sound annoyed; merely curious.

‘Because they’re beautiful,’ she says, and means it, though saying it out loud, _to him_ , makes her cheeks blaze.

The edges of his gloves have rolled back slightly, almost enough to expose his palms. Just enough to make her want to see more.

She takes a deep breath.

When she drags her thumbs over his skin, his eyes close. His eyebrows draw together; he seems surprised. As his eyes start to open she does it again, pressing harder, and his eyes shut once more, his head falling back. 

All she’s really doing is looking at him and touching his arms, but she feels hotter, _hornier_ , than she’s ever known. All her fantasies of him, all her dreaming, and nothing ever came close to this, to _him_ , under her, like this.

With both hands – both steadier than she thought they would be – she pulls on his jacket sleeves, dragging them as far as they can go. They settle at the thickest part of his forearm, maybe an inch short of his elbow. Tashigi is very aware that she’s stopped holding him down to do this, but Smoker doesn't try to change position. He says nothing, doesn't move, only watches her with half-open eyes. 

She dips her fingers beneath his crumpled sleeve, brushing the crook of his elbow. She traces figure-eights, infinity symbols, up and down the sensitive skin, smiling to herself when she hears his breath catch.

He doesn’t vocalise his pleasure, she realises. The sounds he makes remain stoppered, more solid than gasps, more ephemeral than moans, sticking in his throat. And who wouldn’t, she wonders, who wouldn’t want to linger there, at the dip in his collarbones, the curve of his throat.

Using her nails, she draws lazy circles up his forearm; her touch raises goosebumps, and she presses harder and harder, until she is leaving red lines and she hears him throat-gasp again, harder, more forceful. 

There's a scar on his left arm - nothing noteworthy in itself, he's covered in the things; they both are - but it's too small and thin to be from combat. She presses her lips to it, concentrating, like she could pull the memory up through his skin. Close-to, he smells good. _Amazing_. Better than she imagined. Smoke, naturally. His cologne, light and faded. Paper, too, from the piles of it he's always writing on, and - very faintly - ink.

Her own arm is side by side with his. _Don't wear dresses_ , she's been told, constantly, _don't wear anything sleeveless, not with **those** arms_. But his forearms, his muscles, are _giant_ – she feels _fragile_ next to him. He’s stronger than her. She knows that – without weapons, on brute strength alone – she would never beat him.

And yet. She thinks of his hand on her cheek, unspeakably gentle. She feels _safe_. For all her anxieties, she knows in her heart of hearts that Smoker himself has never given any indication that he doubts her. He expects her to be capable. Strong. When she talks about her passion for the sword, about her dreams, he responds with gruffness, but he responds to _everything_ with gruffness; when she talks, she knows he _listens_. 

Tears prickle at her eyes and she blinks them away. She nuzzles and kisses along his skin, enjoying the way his muscles flex under her. This is not the time to get sentimental. She's been daydreaming about him for such a long time, and this is happening _now_. He looks so good, spread beneath her, his arms bared to her.

His other hand comes up to rest on the back of her head; he strokes her hair so slow and steady, so _soothing_ , and he murmurs her name so _sweetly_ , it drags a desperate sound from the back of her throat. She feels like rolling over, dropping to her knees; anything, really, if he’ll keep doing that _like that_.

She bats his hand away, pins it down. The distraction is too much.

His skin is warmer nearer the hem of his glove, and she finds her mouth is watering. When she finally licks across his wrist, he gasps, his head falling back.

She laps harder and harder, and his pulse beats wilder under her tongue. She presses the palm of her other hand to his chest, wanting to properly feel his heartbeat there, but her hand ends up _wandering_ \- over his pecs, his firm nipples, his ridiculously defined abs. Of course, she's seen him shirtless before - he's always shirtless - but she's never dared to actually _look_ , never trusted herself to. And she's groping him, she knows, and some small part of her mind knows she should be ashamed, but he feels _amazing_. He keeps bucking upward, forcing the seam of her jeans to press against her, and she finds it more and more difficult not to rock her hips into it. God - she could come like this, just from grinding against him, from the taste of his skin and the _nearness_ of him. She bites and sucks on his wrist, making him push up hard, and the pressure on her clit has pleasure blazing through her; she releases his skin from between her teeth just so she can breathe.

But she's barely finished drawing breath when he slams her onto her back and _looms_ over her, her legs spreading wide to bracket his hips. The shift makes her realise just how _wet_ she is – her underwear is soaked against her, and she wonders, cheeks flaming, whether it shows through her pants.

The movement also jolts her glasses so they are skewed on her face - Smoker delicately takes them off her and places them on the table, then wraps his hands around her wrists and holds them above her head, making her whimper. She can’t keep quiet like he does, not when he’s touching her that way, not when he’s looking at her with that glint in his eyes. 

His arms are on either side of her head, his jacket crumpled indecently. She sees him glance at his forearm and she follows the movement: his wrist is glistening, and there are scratchmarks and teethmarks, and the beginnings of a reddening bitemark.

First she thinks, _that's an incredible view._

Then she thinks, _oh, no, he'll think I'm a weirdo._

‘Was that... okay?’ Her voice sounds high and breathless. ‘I... um. Always wondered. Uh.’ She doesn't really know what to say. She'd felt him up and... and _rutted_ against him, shamelessly; what _is_ there to say?

‘It was okay.’ His voice is low and _delicious._

He brushes her hair off her face as he speaks, his other hand easily clasping around her wrists, restraining both of them effortlessly. She bites her lip – she isn’t sure if she wants to resist or submit, but it feels _dizzying_ being held in place like that.

‘I think I can understand it,’ he says.

His fist closes in her hair and he tilts her head back – she would have cried out if she’d had the time to draw breath. She feels his breath against her throat and she clenches her teeth to keep from _screaming_. He traces her jawline gently with his lips, his hand leaving her wrists. He doesn’t need to hold her down, she thinks distantly, and he knows it.

'I _always wondered-_ ' he repeats, and for a second she wants to _die_ '-what this pretty little throat would feel like under my tongue.'

The moan she makes is so long and _guttural_ , she doesn't even think it sounds human.

_Pretty._

_**Oh, god.** _

_We're in the main office!_ part of her mind screams. _Don't be so loud!_ But he doesn't seem to care, calm and casual as he sits up a little to slowly ease his gloves off (and oh god, she thinks that alone might make her come), as he eyes her.

'Undo some buttons for me. I want to _see_ ,' he says.

Her fingers are on her shirt before she even registers that they're moving. It was _almost_ his Vice Admiral voice, steeped in command and sureness, but it was more... it was _more._

It takes time, because her hands are _shaking_ , but she gets two of the buttons open and he nods approvingly.

He spreads her shirt collar apart and his gaze on her bared skin _is scorching_. 'Good girl,' he whispers.

She bites her lip as hard as she can to prevent herself from _whimpering_ , and he frowns, pressing his fingertips (his _fingertips_ , his _bare_ fingertips, _god_ ) to her lower lip and shaking his head.

'Let me see that pretty mouth,' he says.

She's going to _die_. She's sure of it. If he keeps looking at her like that, keeps touching her with his bare, ungloved hands, keeps saying _things like that_ , she just knows it will burn her, _he_ will burn her, into complete nothingness.

(And, she also knows - she will absolutely let him.)

She turns away from his gaze - the pressure of it on her skin is just too much to bear - and he grunts, his lips settling where her shoulder meets her neck. His stubble rasps against her and her hips buck, making him growl, actually _growl_ , and push back, grinding slow and firm against her, and she feels his dick pressing into her, hard and thick, and then he moves _just right_ against her clit and she knows she is _this_ close to coming right then.

_Wait!_ she wants to say, beyond mortified. _I can't come like this!_

She feels him grip her thighs - how are his hands so _big?_ \- forcing her legs to spread _wider_. This time he drags the whole, hot length of him against her, back and forth, and she's just so _wet_ , and he's just so hard and _thick_. He _fucks_ against her, unrelenting, and she tries to wriggle her hips away, ease the heft of him against her aching clit so she doesn't just come in her pants like a trembling maiden, but all she gets for her trouble is _more pressure_ , and god, she's so close, but she won't come like this, she _won't_.

But he is hell bent, his cock rutting ceaselessly against her, his fingers digging into her thighs and spreading her, his mouth searing and hungry on her throat, all sparking pleasure into her, white hot and curling up and around her like the smoke from his cigars. He absolutely _surrounds_ her.

It should scare her, she thinks dimly, that she feels so much smaller and weaker, that she feels so utterly _overwhelmed_. But somehow it just sets her aflame.

'Come on,' he rumbles in her ear, his voice dark and rough.

And he drags his stubble down her neck and then he _bites_ and that's it, she's done for.

She tries to clamp her lips together - some part of her brain still vaguely aware that they _are_ in an office - but he yanks her mouth open.

'No,' he commands, and she _feels_ it, as surely as if he'd grabbed her by the throat. It tears her apart, her body shaking and arching as her orgasm blasts through her, incinerating her; she clings to him and quakes and _shrieks_ until all the air has blazed out of her lungs. There are flashes of light behind her eyelids and she thinks that he's burning her alive, _just like she knew he would_.

And he doesn't stop - he slows, mercifully, but he keeps _moving_ , keeps dragging his cock over and over her drenched, oversensitive clit until she's whining and gasping for air and she begs, please, please, _no more_. He stills, _finally_ , and kisses her so sweetly she thinks she will break.

'Good,' he whispers.

His arms around her are strong and sure, and he kisses her face, her eyelids, her hair, until she stops trembling.

Her lashes are heavy with tears when she opens her eyes, and the sudden light blinds her.

‘The power… ‘s back on? I thought I was seeing stars…’ she says, and blushes when she hears herself.

‘You mean you weren’t?' His voice is amused, and she wants to crawl under the couch and hide.

He stands up and reaches for his cigars, taking a deep drag, before turning and walking away.

She wonders where he could be going - is he... is he done with her?

But no; far from it, it seems - he turns the lights off. And _bolts the door_.

He shrugs off his jacket as he approaches her. In the moonlight his muscles and the long scar under his collarbone gleam, as do the points of his teeth when he smiles (as does - she notes out of the corner of her eye - the zipper on his pants, tented outward the way it is); he looks so _predatory_ looming over her like that, and it makes her _shiver_.

Not with fear, she thinks, and smiles. Never fear. Not with _him_.

**Author's Note:**

> this has been on my hard drive since 2009 someone please just take it and go  
> but feedback me before you leave pls <3  
> put it [in here](https://goldensprite.tumblr.com/) if that's your thing <3 <3  
> or if you're looking a beta reader, drop me a line that way


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